


Every Girl Does It

by JackOfNone



Category: Yume Nikki | Dream Diary
Genre: Community: bloodyvalentine, Creepy, Disemboweling, Dismemberment, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Guro, Horror, Murder, Non Consensual, Rough Sex, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/pseuds/JackOfNone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madotsuki explores her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Girl Does It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of BloodyValentine on Dreamwidth, way back in last February.
> 
> There's a lot of fan theories surrounding the really violent imagery in Yume Nikki, and most of them revolve around Madotsuki being the victim of violence in the waking world. I decided to take precisely the opposite approach.

She’s read on the internet that women can have orgasms in their sleep.

It’s not that Madotsuki isn’t interested in sex. She thinks about it, wonders what it’s like, but there’s no time for exploration in between the diary, the Super Famicom, and the dreams. Besides, most of the things you can do in bed involve other people. If there’s one thing Madotsuki doesn’t care about, it’s other people.

But still, she thinks about it. She wonders. And when an idea enters Madotsuki’s head, it takes root in the dream, grows, and puts forth flowers.

* * *

In her dream, Madotsuki walks through a field of snow until she comes to a spiraled castle. The light’s on, and it looks inviting — familiar, even. She’s never gotten this sort of feeling from a place before, in the waking world or the dream. The door’s open, and she presses in.

Inside the house is a one-room apartment much like Madotsuki’s own, with a desk, a bed, and a rug on the floor. There’s a girl inside, sitting on the bed with her legs crossed primly at the ankle — a pretty girl, with long blonde hair and a tight sweater, like an American model on TV. She even smiles when Madotsuki approaches — just a little bit. Enough to let Madotsuki know she’s welcome, anyway.

She kisses the girl, because she’s dimly aware that this is supposed to come first. Then they’re on the bed, and the girl’s fumbling under her skirt and stroking her thighs with light fingers, her hands wandering upwards. There’s more kissing. More soft touches.

This is all right, but Madotsuki’s getting bored.

She grabs the girl roughly by the shoulders and shoves her down on the bed, and she responds with a little moan of pleasure. She cries out as Madotsuki yanks aside her panties and ploughs into her cunt with reckless abandon, not caring when she feels her fingernails catch on something inside, or stopping to worry if the sounds the girl is making are pain or joy.

That’s more like it. Every time the girl’s hands wind into the sheets, every time Madotsuki’s fingers come out bloody, every time she chokes out that little ambiguous “Ah…ah”, Madotsuki feels herself getting closer, but never quite there.

Madotsuki winds her way back to the girl’s room the next time she dreams, but makes the mistake of switching off the light. Everything looks different in the dark — something’s looking in the window with eyes so large they take up the whole pane, and the door’s locked, and the wardrobe’s grinning, and the girl isn’t a girl at all but something that’s making an awful droning noise through a black void of a smile.

She wakes up, and writes a note in her diary: “Never go back to the castle in the snow.”

* * *

Madotsuki finds a knife a few nights later. It’s a nice knife — a good old-fashioned broad-bladed kitchen cleaver, with an edge that cuts but isn’t razor sharp. She tests it on a creature she finds in the white desert — something with large, weeping eyes — and finds that it leaves a good, jagged slice that bleeds profusely. It’s perfect, actually -- everything she could have wanted in a knife. After all, it's her dream.

She has some fun with the knife, dragging it along the walls and through the technicolor guts of the creatures that inhabit the world of neon, until she remembers the pretty blonde girl and her kisses, and how nice it was when she bled. Madotsuki knows she doesn’t want to go back there, exactly, but she's curious and doesn't want to stop her little experiment now. Luckily, she has another idea.

The way to the spaceship is long and strange, and climbing all those stairs wouldn’t exactly be pleasant even without the strange hands that lunge upwards from the darkness. It’s all worth it, though, when she walks onto the bridge and sees him there, his long fingers picking out a forlorn tune on his piano. He turns around when she approaches and warbles in his odd, alien language.

Madotsuki’s hand is trembling with excitement as she raises the knife. He backs away, chirping in fear and surprise, but the piano behind him blocks his escape.

She doesn’t say anything — what’s the use of saying anything to a dream? Instead, the knife lashes out and tears through layers of cloth and flesh, down to the bone. Blood runs down the knife, over her hand, and she presses herself closer to him. She can feel him shuddering, feel the warm blood soaking through her clothes and spreading to her bare skin.

She raises the knife again, and aims for the throat. The high-pitched squeal he’s been making becomes a drowning gurgle, and her face is drenched with red spray.

This is perfect. She rocks up against him, grinding against his thigh as he twitches, and groans deep in her throat as she rips at him, over and over again. His blood and the alien viscera that spill from his wounds are the only color on the monochrome ship, and it’s so beautiful she could just cry.

He takes a long time to die, no matter how many times her knife catches on his ribs, no matter how much flesh she carves from him. The room is a mess now and Madotsuki’s in the center of it, breathing hard and barely missing a beat as she stabs. She’s all but on top of him now, her hips bucking against his as he dies, her other hand desperately trying to steady herself on the blood-slick keyboard, slamming the same discordant chord over and over again.

When he finally stops kicking, Madotsuki arches her back and comes for the first time in her life, so hard it jolts her straight out of the dream and leaves her sitting bolt-upright in a rumpled but sadly bloodless bed.

She smiles a little, goes to her desk, and takes out her diary.


End file.
